Hair comes away in clumps, drifting in the air or settling on the wet ground. The itch and sting rise higher, pressing me to the edge of collapse. Every time, I tell myself it will be bearable, yet somehow, with each use, it becomes worse.
It takes barely thirty heartbeats after the last strip of skin falls before a new layer begins to form. Fifty more, and the itching dulls, the razor pain fading into the distance. Within two full minutes, my body is whole again, hair included.
I straighten, stand tall, and the rawness vanishes, as if it never was. My feet alone remain sullied, streaked with dirt and thin brown water. The rest of me feels new, like a child washed clean the moment it leaves its mother. I study my hands—smooth skin, no blue flesh showing, no veins threatening to burst through. I close them into fists, savoring the sense of protection, the barrier between me and the world.
I remain there for ten long, steady breaths. The others still avoid looking at me. Silence blankets us. A few flies stir from the ground, spiral in the air, and finally vanish into the shadows behind me.
At last, I reach for my clothing. The other blue still holds them, arms folded awkwardly behind his back. The gold watch glints faintly in the lamplight, and lastly, I take it from him, but at the same time, he speaks to me, grabbing for my wrist. “The watch is an artifact of the 4th Grade. Moreover, its contentment; it’s called a ‘Messer’ and has the durability to slice through the skin of any orange-blooded. Harmon himself bled for it. You can open the watch by turning this circle on the watch.” He points at it and continues,
“The knife can be taken out, as it can elastically bend through the watch. But what is as important as the knife is the drop of blood of this man inside the watch as well.” I nod while looking at it, but gaze at the others shortly after, trying to let my nervousness vanish.
“The next time,” I say, my voice carrying a dry edge, “you should plan these kinds of things in cleaner environments.” A flicker of a smirk crosses my face, though it’s weighed with irritation. My forehead knots faintly with veins, because I already know the truth—I’ll have to walk into the banquet with damp socks and toes that still itch.
That thought should bother me more, but it doesn’t. The banquet itself looms larger in my mind. Either I will die there and never see the faces I intend to save, or I will succeed—an assassin’s triumph.
Grim steps to my side, unfazed now by my nakedness
“With this, you’ll be able to communicate with us three times. Three times a day, to be exact. No more, no less.”
Grim’s eyes burn into me as he says it, bright with urgency, yet shadowed beneath the web of scars lacing his face. It’s as if he’s been cut apart and sewn back together a thousand times, each slash etched with its own story.
Before I can respond, his hand flashes forward. I flinch only slightly as he drives something sharp into the inside of my ear. My auricle stings, and the sensation is strange—wet and warm—almost intimate in its violation. Then comes the second intrusion: a glint of glass, an ampoule drawn from his coat. Inside, the thick glimmer of orange blood swirls, catching the lamplight in a molten glow.
Grim cracks the seal with a deft twist, dips his finger into the liquid, and presses the drop deep into my ear. The warmth seeps into me, and the metallic tang of its scent hits my nose even before it reaches my skin.
“Formula of communication,” he says, his voice gravel dragging over stone. “Harmon told me you’ll be able to communicate...” He repeats himself, the words weighed with a deliberate emphasis. “...only three times a day with the man who has drunk the same blood as you, and the corresponding blood you have consumed. No, let me correct myself. You won’t be able to communicate but hear the voice of the speaker.”
His eyes cut to Eriksson, who’s dressed in the tailored mask of nobility. Grim extends his hand, and without hesitation, Eriksson leans forward, licking the residue of the mixture—my blood mingled with the orange, from Grim’s finger. It’s quick, clinical, as though tasting the formula is no stranger to him.
Three times a day, Grim said. That means Eriksson could whisper into my ear from anywhere, at any time—though only thrice within the span of a day. No more, no less. It probably has a radius, but likely a generous one; the limitation is not in distance but in number.
A chill laces my spine, and I pull my cloak around me, fastening it at the collar.
The carpet stretches before me like a river of fire. Its weaves are enormous, dyed in the hues of Their Royal Highness; rich orange threads shimmer under the glow, and walking over it, I feel the urge to smirk, to tilt my chin higher as though I own it.
I’ve been here before—once, long ago, when I was still a child. Back then, the palace seemed alive, bristling with vigilance; guards at every door, patrols sweeping through the halls every minute. The whole castle was wrapped in an unbroken wall of orange-blooded soldiers—Zentria’s elite.